Beginnings
by Boducky
Summary: Hm... this title rather sucks. Reading the 6th book got me to thinking: How did Snape come to Hogwarts? Rated for language and somewhatgraphic violence. I'm so mean to little Sevie. :


**Beginnings**

_Disclaimer_:Much like V for Vendetta… Harry Potter does not belong to me. Woe! If it did, Dumbledore would be… uh, never mind, don't want to give spoilers. If Harry Potter _did_ belong to me, I'd so hug Dumbledore and Lupin (because they are the awesomes!) and perhaps Snape, if I could be sure that he wouldn't kill me for trying.

Author's Rant: Um, I'm an evil, sadistic bitch… I know it. Please, please forgive me for what I am about to do to young Severus. gives young Severus a cookie… realizes it doesn't nearly make up for what's happened in this fic.

There was shouting… almost always shouting. The young boy had learned long ago that when the shouting started, it was always best to hid somewhere and stay very quiet until the shouting stopped. That usually didn't happen until his father passed out drunk or drugged or until he had worn him out from beating on his mother.

As soon as the shouting started, the child shot up from his seat on the battered living-room couch and scrambled on his hands and knees to the kitchen. It was a new trick of his. Most of the time, the cupboard under the kitchen sink looked like it was full of cleaning chemicals. How anyone could believe that was beyond him, since it was obvious just looking around that not much cleaning got done in their house. There was a line of bottles, and behind them… emptiness. It was a good place for hiding.

Amidst screamed curses and banging on walls, the child wrenched open the cupboard doors, pushed the bottles back into the vast empty space behind them. Scuttling into the cramped space, he bit his tongue to keep from crying out as he smacked his head against the water-pipe. Scrunching up as small as possible, he grabbed the edges of the doors and drew them closed.

There was a gap, a small one which he could just barely see through. He knew he would remain invisible in the darkness of the cupboard. As long as he remained silent, he wouldn't be discovered.

"You bitch, you fucking bitch!" a man's voice shouted. There was a shrill, helpless scream as flesh connected with flesh. The boy flinched as he heard the sound of his mother's frail body crash against the wall.

He felt awful, cowering in a corner while his mother was being beaten yet again. But he had learned the hard way that there was nothing he could do. When he was nine, he had actually thought he could do something. He'd tried to stick up for her, foolishly stood in front of her as she cowered on the floor and yelled at his raging father to leave her alone.

He had been knocked unconscious and woke up to find his mother looking over him, cleaning his wounds and crying. It had been a week before he could bear to get out of bed and walk, almost two and a half before the swelling in his face subsided enough for him to be able to eat solid foods again. Of course, no one had taken him to a hospital. His father didn't care enough and his mother was too afraid of what would happen if anyone found out.

"Please, don't," she pleaded. She was always begging with him, and it never made any difference. The outcome was always the same when he got this way.

"Where is he? Where is the little bastard?" the man raged, banging doors as he searched for someone. _He's looking for me_, the boy realized.

"I don't know. Don't hurt him, he's just a child!" the woman's voice begged.

There was the sound of glass breaking as he threw a bottle at her. Thankfully, his aim wasn't the greatest, what with his being drunk out of his mind.

"Just a child! Just a child! He's a fucking freak, woman! Just like you! It's all your fault you witch!" he raged.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she wept. "I didn't know he'd turn out like this. I was praying he wouldn't turn out like this."

"Don't you dare pray, woman! You're going to end up in hell and _fucking burn_, you witch! And so is he! All because of you!"

"Don't say that, don't say that," she begged tearfully.

"You lied to me, you whore! You tricked me! You are _nothing_ but a huge, _fucking mistake_. And so is the boy. I swear to God, if I had known what you are, and what the boy would become, I'd have drowned you when you were pregnant with him!"

"I'm so sorry," she whined. "I'm sorry for everything!"

It sent a knife through his heart, it truly did. The young child was resigned to the fact that his father hated him, he had heard the man scream similar things in a drunken rage, even been threatened with a recently-used heroine needle. But he knew things should be different. He had looked longingly out the window and watched as fathers catch with their sons or taught them to ride bikes. And the young child knew that mothers were supposed to protect their children, not cower in a corner and let their husbands beat on their sons.

"I won't have this! I _fucking_ won't have this! I'll find the little shit and chain him up in his room forever! And you, _don't fucking look at me you bitch_! Tell me where he is! TELL ME WHERE THE FUCK HE IS, YOU WITCH! I'll find him before those fucking people find him, and I swear I'll _kill him!_" He roared. The child could barely understand what he saw through the crack in the cupboard doors.

During the argument, doors and drawers had been opened, items tossed all over the place. Then the child saw his father removing something from one of them; the biggest knife they owned was clenched in his fist. The child couldn't begin to comprehend what was happening next.

His father was hitting his mother, that much he understood. Why he was using the same hand that held the knife was beyond him. His mother's screams were shriller and more panicked than he had ever remembered them being. Over and over again, the boy heard his father screaming "I'll kill him! I'll fucking kill him!"

This had never happened before.

And when the beating was over, his mother just lay there, totally motionless. That was wrong. She usually cried and sobbed, apologized over and over again for something that wasn't her fault.

His father was frightening, more so than usual. Through the small crack, the child could see his face was red with fury, veins bulged on his neck and face. The man's dark eyes darted frantically from place to place, never staying on one spot for long. He was clearly still looking for his son. There was a manic glow on his face.

_I have to get out of here_, the boy realized. He trembled in terror and struggled to keep from wetting himself as his father searched the room. Biting down on his fingers, he silently prayed that he wouldn't start crying or knock over one of the bottles, alerting the man to his presence. Footsteps thudded through the room, a pair of legs clad in old, ripped jeans passed mere inches from the hiding place.

They returned a few minutes later, the feet pointed towards the cupboard. The boy saw that there were drops of some red liquid on the tops of the white socks. The bottoms were absolutely soaked. He fought to keep his breathing steady, to prevent his heart pounding too loudly. All the man had to do was bend down, and then he would see… The child scrunched his eyes shut.

The pair of legs left, footsteps thundered up the old wooden stairs. The boy listened to his father crash about upstairs, then carefully opened the cupboard door.

There was a church up the street, he remembered. He didn't know exactly what churches were for, but he knew they were supposed to help people. Maybe they could do something for him. Dark eyes darting from the stairs to the screen door, the boy steeled himself to run. It was less than ten feet away, he was sure he could make it. And then he could go to the church and make them help his mother.

With a nervous intake of breath, the boy stood up and started running. He hadn't made it ten steps when he slipped on something, letting out a cry. Scrambling to get up, he slid about in the liquid on the floor. _What had spilled?_ he thought vaguely. It was only when he turned to lever himself up that he saw his mother lying on the ground, her black-brown eyes open and empty, red droplets on her face.

"Where are you, you little fuck!" an angry voice roared. The child gasped and scrambled frantically, tears streaming down his face. It felt like an eternity before he got up and started running again, fighting to keep from falling. Footsteps crashed on the stairs behind him. He didn't look back as he darted through the kitchen towards the door. A sob of despair escaped his lips as he wasted precious seconds struggling with the doorknob.

He let out a cry of relief as the door opened. Not bothering with shoes, the boy ran bare-foot onto the porch.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the collar just before he reached the steps. Blinded by panic, the boy lashed out with feet and small fists, kicking and stomping and hitting anything he could reach.

"Stop! Police!" A uniformed man was standing off to their right, his nightclub clasped in his hand. Shocked, the boy's father relaxed his grip and turned towards the copper. The child wrenched himself free and dashed towards the safety of the car, where another officer was waiting and motioning for the boy to come towards her.

The child heard a scream of pain from up on the porch, but didn't see what caused it. Still running, he turned to see the officer clutching at his face, his father wielding the bloody knife menacingly.

"Stop!" yelled the woman as she unhooked her gun. "Put the knife down! Drop the knife! _Now!_"

The boy froze when he saw the officer holding her gun, pointing it somewhere above his shoulder. Turning, he saw his father lunge for the policeman on the porch, his knife held high. Behind him, a world of sound exploded. Once, twice, three times… the boy clasped his hands to his ears and fell to his knees. He saw his father jerk with each clap of thunder, drops of red spattering from his arm and side, pouring down his pale, bare torso and pooling on the weathered wood of the deck.

The woman hurried to the car and grabbed her radio. "We need an ambulance dispatched to 1937 Queen's way. There's an officer with a knife-wound to the face, suspect has been shot three times in the upper body, a child with undetermined injuries and I have no idea what's in the house. We've been called here before, so I know the man has a wife. I haven't seen her…"

"In the kitchen…" the boy replied softly. "She's hurt." The woman looked down on him with concerned green eyes. She knelt down and clasped his arms gently, looking up at him.

"Be a good boy and stay here," she said gently. "I'm going to take a quick peek at my partner and at your dad… then I'll go in and see what I can do for your mum, okay?"

She was pretty, the boy realized this. A young lady with pale skin, flecked with pale brown freckles across her nose and cheeks, her long red hair fluttered behind her as she ran up the steps. She paused beside the officer on the porch, placing a hand on his shoulder as she looked at his face.

He nodded to her reassuringly, listened as she whispered something to him, and then disappeared into the house. The woman stayed and knelt beside his father, looking at his face and touching the side of his neck. Her partner came out a moment later and looked down at the bleeding man with disgust.

"I always knew that bastard would do something like this," he spat. The woman shook her head at him sharply, then glanced worriedly towards the young boy kneeling on the lawn, looking up at them in shock.

She stood up and walked towards the child. He could see that there were tears in her eyes, that she was trying not to cry. "Hello, sweetie. I'm sorry you had to see this. Are you hurt?" He shook his head sharply, long black hair whipped against his cheeks. "Okay, good. We're waiting for the ambulance to come here for your mum and dad, then we have to take you to the station to talk to you. Will you be okay with that?"

He sat there mutely, staring at her. It was chilling, no child should ever look like that. He didn't look scared or worried or even angry that she had just shot his father… those would have been normal reactions. He merely looked up into her face, his dark eyes looking tired and resigned and slightly mistrusting.

"Those are your parents, right? What's your name, sweetie? I'm office O'Hara." He didn't answer, merely lowered his gaze to the ground. The child didn't say a word as he was led gently to the police cruiser and placed in the back seat. He watched silently as ambulances and more police cruisers pulled up on the streets of the run-down neighborhood.

Human nature dictates that, when something this horrible happens, people have to come out of their homes to gawk and gossip. After briefly speaking to her squad leader about the shooting, and learning that the man and woman were both dead, the officer took a moment to speak to one of the neighbors.

The child's name was Severus Snape. And he was an orphan because of her.


End file.
